


Christmas is Interesting

by Anonymous



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Christmas Fluff, Declarations Of Love, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Misunderstandings, Muddling Through the Holdiays, Pining, nothing too graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:35:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28296156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Tony's more than happy to be pulled away from a boring work holiday party by Peter's unexpected arrival at the tower. But spending Christmas Eve tending to the young man's wounds leads to an unexpected results.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 7
Kudos: 107
Collections: Anonymous





	Christmas is Interesting

**Author's Note:**

> This is admittedly a mishmash of universes. I basically took some things I liked from Spiderverse, comics and early MCU and smooshed them together. Hopefully everything makes sense in the context of the story. Happy Christmas!

Tony wonders to himself – half an hour deep into a mind-numbing monologue from the Chief of the National Guard – when Christmas became an exercise in competitive misery. It defies logic than any of the people in attendance at this fundraiser can actual want to be here.

It’s Christmas Eve, after all. Normal people would be spending it with family or, barring that, at least getting epically smashed somewhere with a sea breeze. Any other year, Tony himself would be sitting on a beach with a bottomless mojito served by a waitress wearing something exceptionally skimpy. Maybe not the most traditional celebration, but at least better than finding himself at home and facing down another sad, frigid holiday spent solo.

It’s all deeply depressing, only exacerbated by the fact that the time he isn’t spending on his own has been conscripted by Nick Fury to spread the gospel of the Avengers at a series of parties like this one.

Banner and Nat are spending their first Christmas together back in Moscow introducing the big guy to whatever qualifies as the Romanov family. Her little network of spies. Steve’s spirited Bucky away somewhere rural upstate for a quiet celebration. Rhodey’s off the grid on a deployment, Carol’s off world, and Wanda and Vision are off together doing something disgustingly mind-meldy. And so on and so on.

So it’s only Tony who’s stuck in New York making nice with any military bigwigs and politicians who prefer a holiday spent hobnobbing with an Avenger in the Stark Tower ballroom to the comforts of home fires.

He nods dumbly while the man beside him continues to drone, eyes wandering across the room – past the tasteful red and gold decorations picked out by Pepper, the sparkling chandeliers gently tinkling under the murmur of conversation, the guests dressed in their finest – to the panel of windows leading out to the balcony and the nighttime cityscape. Even with the added glitz and twinkle of Christmas, the lights seem cold and distant from this far up. The sight makes him feel chilled and lonely deep down.

The chief pauses for breath, and Tony jolts from his musings, launching into the talking points that have been branded into his head by the terrifying Maria Hill. The Avengers can be a key piece of an effective national defense. Blah blah blah, ad nauseum. A headache is building low in his skull, and he’s going to destroy whatever party planner decided to skimp on the booze. The scotch in his glass is woefully sub-par.

So when JARVIS announces, via the tiny speaker embedded in Tony’s tinted smart glasses, that Mr. Parker has entered the lab on level 83, he’s grateful to take the proffered distraction. If he sticks around here for too much longer, he might become certifiably brain dead.

He gives the chief, and an approaching senator, his regards and slips away from the crowd as seamlessly as he can.

The elevator slips quietly up to the floor he’s equipped as his personal lab, and Tony huffs out a little sigh of relief as he loosens his tie, a bright cherry red that pops against his dark suit. When he steps out into the lab, it’s dark. A chill breeze blowing through the big, echoing space is the only thing indicating that Peter’s in here somewhere.

“JARVIS, lights,” he says, and the overhead fluorescents flick on in a wave. They reveal empty workstations and idle machinery and there, in a far corner, a huddled figure on the floor. Peter looks a little like the spider he takes his vigilante moniker from. One that’s been smacked with a newspaper, or caught in a swirl of water in the bathroom drain. He’s laid out on his back, limbs crumpled in to protect his core.

Tony’s heart thumps heavy in his chest.

“P-Peter?” he stammers out, moving swiftly to the figure.

The man in question lets out a weak groan.

“Hey, boss,” he says, coughing wetly. “Sorry to crash the party.”

“What the hell happened to you, Parker?”

Tony crouches down, wanting to get a closer look, but hesitant to reach out and touch Peter lest he hurt him. With visible effort, Peter turns his head to look at Tony.

“Okay, so I might have gotten into a little altercation with a few guys trying to knock over a bodega tonight,” he says. “One of them got off a lucky shot.”

“You were shot?” Tony’s voice comes out far more forcefully than he intends, and before he knows it he’s leaning over Peter, trying to push away his curled in limbs so he can assess damage. “JARVIS, run a scan of Mr. Parker, please. I want rolling vitals and a full rundown.”

“Affirmative, sir,” JARVIS intones, and a holoscreen with a steadily beeping pulse monitor flickers to life over Peter’s shoulder.

“You make it sound so dramatic when you say it like that,” he whines, batting away Tony’s hands. “Didn’t hit anything important. I’m, like, eighty percent sure.”

“Eighty percent?”

“Eighty-five,” Peter says. “Whatever. Anyway, nothing too terrible’s happened yet, so I think I’m golden.”

He groans and reaches out, attempting a sitting position, but he can’t quite manage it. Tony’s hands immediately go to his back, steadying.

“Easy there, Ponyboy,” he says. Then: “Jesus.”

With his body unfolded, he gets his first look at Peter’s injury – the fabric of his suit scorched and ripped, pale skin inflamed around a puncture that slowly oozes red. It looks as though the skin is already attempting to heal over the wound, a side effect of Peter’s super-charged healing.

“So I, uh, kinda didn’t come by just for the sympathy.”

The words pull Tony’s attention away from the wound, back up to Peter’s face. His jaw clenches sporadically with pain as he averts his eyes.

“Need you to do me a favor and help me get this bullet out,” Peter says through grinding teeth. “They’re a bitch to remove after the skin’s healed and my hands aren’t really – uh – steady right now.”

He brings his hands up to his own face, and Tony can see the tremors running through them from the blood loss and adrenaline. It’s probably unwise, but he can’t help running a hand through Peter’s sweat-soaked hair, honestly unsure of who the gesture is meant to comfort.

“Alright, spider-boy,” he says, softly. “Let’s get this taken care of.”

It’s a slow process, hoisting Peter up and shuffling him over to one of the work benches, but they manage with a minimum of jostling.

“You realize that most criminals even refuse to work Christmas Eve, right?” Tony says as he fetches the first aid kit. It is unfortunately not the first time he’s had to patch Peter up. Usually just lacerations or chemical burns from experiments. This is the first bullet wound. If he thinks about that too much he’s going to spiral out in an unpleasant way. “Why were you even patrolling tonight?”

“Apparently not all of them,” Peter counters. “And it’s not like I had anything better to do. May decided to go on a holiday cruise this year. I was gonna swing by the good taco truck on the way home to celebrate.”

“Ah.”

It’s not like he’s forgotten that Peter and MJ split up nearly a year ago, but he didn’t really think through what that might mean. Tony’s so used to spending the holidays on his own by now that he forgets how hard it can hit when its still fresh. That sucking _absence_ you feel.

“Not trying to be a sad sack,” Peter says. “I just wanted to keep busy.”

“It’s okay if you want to be a sad sack,” Tony replies, because it’s the sort of thing he wishes people would understand. “I’m not exactly the Christmas cheer police.”

He unpacks the first aid kit, pulling out alcohol wipes and a pair of wicked-looking tweezers. Raising them to eye level, he clicks them together a couple of times.

“So,” Tony says. “This is gonna really suck.”

Peter grimaces, braces his hands on the work bench in front of him.

“Okay, boss, let’s get it over with.”

“You do remember you don’t work for me anymore, right?” Tony says. “I’m just checking because you have actually lost a lot of blood, and it might be making your brain a little fuzzy.”

It’s been years since he had a right to that title. Peter’s in charge of his own company now, innovating in biochemistry in a way that Tony’s brain can just barely comprehend. A far cry from where he stared as a chirpy, bright-eyed intern. Somehow, though, the name stuck. He wishes it irritated him rather than sending a tendril of want curling through his belly.

Peter rolls his eyes at him.

“Are you seriously trying to distrac-Ah! Ow, fuck, ow…”

“For real? That’s just the alcohol.”

Tony’s got one hand wrapped around the curve of Peter’s taut stomach, having ripped a much bigger hole in the spidey suit for better access. His pointer finger and thumb frame the entry wound to dab at it with an alcohol wipe. The muscles jump under his fingers, the skin soft and preternaturally warm to the touch. Tony’s thoughts veer off for just a second, and he strokes gently along Peter’s flank.

Instead of settling, Peter hisses through his teeth at him.

“Okay, okay.”

Tony does one more sweep with the disinfectant, then tosses the wipe in the trash.

“I don’t think I can even get an infection,” Peter whines.

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t put my faith in that assumption,” Tony says, dryly. “Now, brace yourself.”

Peter grips the table a little harder, steel screeching. Then he clenches his jaw and gives a sharp nod.

Slowly, Tony slides the sharp tip of the tweezers into the wound. He circles the opening with a finger, probing for any hint of the bullet. The sound that Peter releases is like a sob, filtered through the barrier of his teeth. Tony freezers.

“Hey, hey,” he waits until Peter’s eyes meet his, bright and glassy with pain. “Just breathe. We’re gonna do this quick, I promise, but you gotta breathe.”

“Sorry,” Peter pants. One of his hands moves to wrap around Tony’s shoulder.

“Gonna be alright, kid. I promise.”

He’s not sure where that came from, because he hasn’t called Peter kid in years, not after the young man called him out the habit. It slips out now, though, and Peter says nothing in protest, just gives Tony’s shoulder a squeeze.

He breathes in harshly when Tony moves the tweezers forward, listening desperately for the clink of metal on metal. Peter’s fingers dig deep into the muscles of his arm to the point where he’s sure there will be bruises there in the morning. And Tony has to take a moment to breathe himself – to let the jolt of want and electricity that rushes through him at the thought of being marked by Peter dissipate. He needs to concentrate.

He continues to search, small careful movements with Peter’s warm breaths close by his ear. Then, finally, he feels it. The resistance he’s been searching for, hard and metallic.

“There we go,” he whispers, mostly to himself.

It’s a long, long minute – making sure his grip is gentle but firm – before he pulls the mangled bullet out and lets it clink onto the table, leaving a smear of ruby blood behind.

“Thank fuck,” Peter wheezes, double over so that his face is nearly buried in Tony’s neck.

He considers, momentarily, taking the time to stitch the wound up, but it really will heal up in short time, so he simply cleans it with more antiseptic and applies a bulky bandage.

“All done,” he says, and feels a puff of thanks against his skin. The spider clings to him weakly as they stand and make their way to the elevator. He smells like sweat, and cold fresh air, and coppery blood.

“Penthouse, J,” Tony says.

Beside him, Peter rumbles a protest.

“I can go home,” he says.

“Yeah, not a chance,” Tony says. “Besides, if you go home, you’ll rob me of an excuse to skip the rest of this godawful party Fury made me throw.”

Slowly, Peter raises his head from where it had been resting against Tony’s chest. His eyes twitch upward, taking Tony in fully.

“I really did crash the party then,” he says. “You look … Good.”

Tony’s throat is tight when he swallows. He reaches up to loosen his tie a little more, even though it’s already hanging askew. He does his best to ignore the compliment. Blood loss, he thinks. Peter has to be feeling woozy right now.

“You have impeccable timing, as ever,” he says, and Peter laughs, so he must be in the clear.

Then, like magic, the elevator dings open onto the penthouse level.

He helps Peter to the guest bedroom where he offers the use of the shower and some spare lounge clothes. Those needs attended to, Tony goes to the kitchen, where he finds last night’s leftover pad Thai and reheats it. He divides the noodles between two plates, adds a few spring rolls, and grabs a couple beers from the fridge.

Everything gets loaded onto a tray that he carries into the living room. By the time he gets there, Peter’s already curled up in one corner of the couch, a blanket pulled over his legs and the television displaying the frenetic opening scene of Home Alone.

“Interesting choice,” he says with a snort, passing Peter a plate and setting the beer bottle down on the coffee table in front of him.

“Hey, I like this movie,” Peter protests. “It’s a classic.”

“Of course you like the movie about the pint-sized chaos demon.”

Peter laughs.

“Who exactly are you calling pint-sized?” he asks.

“You have two inches on me, Parker,” Tony says with a finger wag. “But I’m still your elder. Remember that and show some respect.”

They settle to their meal on either end of the sofa.

Tony hasn’t bothered much with Christmas decorations this year, but there’s a tiny, droopy, Charlie Brown-style Christmas tree on the coffee table courtesy of Pepper and a gaudy strand of multi-colored lights blinking around the railing out on his balcony. That’s his contribution to the festive season. This evening, getting ready for the party, they had felt sort of pathetic. Now, somehow, they feel different.

It is different with Peter there next to him, laughing at a snow-infused movie, face lit by the red and green lights on the little Christmas tree. He’s looked better, certainly. Peter’s complexion is still wan from blood loss, which only brings out the dark stains under his eyes and the sharp prickle of stubble on his jaw. He looks tired, and a part of Tony wants to bundle him up tighter in that blanket and put him to bed. But he also looks … Like he belongs here. Right here. And he makes the whole place feel more like home.

Tony rubs at his chest, pressing down on the ache that’s blooming there, a circle of pain and want building up around the reactor. Not a new sensation for him, but more insistent every time it crops up. Pointless, of course, but when has that ever stopped him?

He’s a smart guy. He knows Peter Parker could never go for a mess of a man like him. And even if he could, he deserves better. Someone to take care of him, and balance him. Someone to look stunning on his arm when he’s accepting his Nobel prize in a few years. Someone a lot like his gorgeous model ex-wife, with the caveat that she sticks around this time. Maybe he should introduce Peter to the newest R&D recruit. She was pretty, right? Nerdy chic. They’d probably hit it off...

“We should do this sometime at the compound,” Peter says, gesturing at the television, thankfully breaking that line of thought. “Can you imagine Natasha and Wanda versus all those booby traps?”

Tony can’t help but laugh at the image.

“You got a death wish, Parker?” he says. “Because I’m pretty sure Natasha would murder you.”

Peter laughs and stretches. His legs extend down the sofa, feet first nudging at Tony’s thigh and then insinuating themselves into his lap. Tony lays a hand on one wool sock-clad foot, digging a thumb into the arch.

Peter sighs and leans back against the cushions.

“This is nice,” he mumbles, voice coming out slurred and sleepy.

“You know, if you wanted to spend Christmas together, all you had to do was ask,” Tony jokes.

Peter rolls his head against the back of the couch, a denial.

“Couldn’t do that,” he says. “Things always feel so loaded this time of year. Can’t risk scaring you off. Especially if I want to –”

He seems to realize just in time that he’s saying something he didn’t intend, and swallows the end of the sentence in a swallow of beer.

Curious, Tony tilts his head toward him.

“Want to what?”

“Nothing,” Peter says, speaking too quickly to sound believable.

“C’mon,” he urges, curious. “Spit it out.”

“Not important,” Peter says, with a shake of his head. “Look, we’re missing the heartwarming conclusion.”

“Nuh-uh.” Tony says. “Hey J? Give me playback, five minutes. Enhance Mr. Parker’s audio.”

“No, JARVIS, belay that,” Peter pops up to a fully-seated position, gesturing wilding at the ceiling.

“Sir?” JARVIS enquires.

Tony eyes Peter for a long moment, waits until his shoulder slump in hang-dog defeat.

“JARVIS, belay that,” he echoes.

“Yes, Sir,” the AI says, and Tony could swear he’s sighing with exasperation. He can't help but program them sassy.

“Now,” he says, setting his face into a serious expression and turning his attention to Peter. “Spill.”

“I just, um, I was going to say especially, uh, especially if I want to take things to the next level.”

Peter twists his fingers in and out of knots, twitchy with nerves, and Tony should reach out and reassure him, but he can’t because he’s too busy feeling his heart sink down to the floor.

A part of him has been expecting this. Peter’s business has been thriving, but it’s experiencing typical growing pains, including a problem finding the right employees. They’ve talked it through on numerous occasions. So it would make sense for Peter to take it to a new level, move the business out west, maybe out to Silicon Valley where staffing shouldn’t be an issue. And maybe there’s more than that. The prospect of a fresh start in a new city after his divorce has to appeal. He wanted to save the news until after Christmas to save Tony the pain. It’s sweet, really.

Tony wonders, briefly, how pathetic it would be if he were to follow him out to California like a lost puppy. Would the associated shame be enough to dissuade him? Unlikely.

“Boss?” Peter’s looking up at him from under those long, dark lashes, waiting for him to say something.

What he should say is something encouraging. Supportive. The kind of thing a good mentor would always have on hand. That’s what he’s going to do. He opens his mouth to do so.

“Is there anything I could do to persuade you … Not to?”

Well, shit. That’s not good.

“Oh,” the word comes out as a sharp exhale from Peter’s mouth.

He stands sharply, backs up a couple of steps, and runs his fingers aggressively through his hair.

“Okay,” he says. “Yeah. That, uh, sure. Makes sense. I’ll just …”

He looks around, lost.

“I’m gonna go.”

Peter tugs his hair a little more, wanders past Tony toward the balcony. He doesn’t have a coat, or shoes, or anything to help him weather the cold night.

Tony splutters, trying to come up with the right words to stop him. Before he can, though, Peter storms back toward him, still fidgeting, but face set in grim determination.

“You know what, no,” he says. “That’s not fair. You don’t get to dismiss me like that. I deserve to make my case before you just say no.”

And Tony can’t imagine why Peter feels the need to justify it to him, but he’s still a little shocked by the whole situation.

“Alright,” he says. “Hit me.”

Peter clears his throat, starts pacing from one end of the living room to the other.

“We have the same interests,” he says, and he must see Tony’s eyebrows raise in confusion, because he raises a hand to stop any questions.

“Which, sure, isn’t everything. But it’s not nothing. I love talking science with you. And you get the whole patrol thing. Like, I came to you tonight, and you didn’t lecture or freak out, you just pulled through and helped me.”

“Peter, I— “

“No,” Peter interjects. “Just, let me finish.”

Tony nods dumbly.

“We get on, don’t we?” Peter says, tone turning a little strained and desperate. The words come quick, tumbling over one another. “I mean, more than that. I’ve wanted you forever. You probably knew that. But you’re also my best friend. However it started. I know you thought I was a little shit when we first met. But it’s been fifteen years, and we’ve both changed. Together.”

Peter jerks to stop. He seems to decide, instead, to stand his ground, planting his feet and looking at Tony head-on, capturing him with the force of those honey-brown eyes.

“You’re the person I want to tell when something really great happens, and the one I want to bitch to when it all goes wrong,” he says, softly. “When I’m with you, doing anything or nothing, it feels … It feels like home. So if you feel anything like that for me too, then I think we should go for it. Give us a real shot at being something more. Or, I don’t know, just … Let me take you out sometime.”

Somewhere in that speech – maybe around the time that Peter said being around him feels like home – Tony stopped breathing. He’s played this scene a hundred times in his own head, a private little fantasy. But he always managed actual words in those daydreams. Now he’s just caught frozen in the beam of Peter’s attention.

Peter lets out a frustrated puff of air, presses his palms to his eyes.

“I didn’t want to do this right now,” he sighs. “It’s too much pressure, and you got this deer in headlights thing going on. So, um, I guess give me call sometime? If you want to … Or even if you don’t. Just think about it. I’ll— “

He points to the balcony, takes a couple steps toward it.

Before he can get very far, Tony reaches out and grabs two handfuls of Peter’s t-shirt, soft with age and skin-warm. He’s still having a little trouble with the putting words together in coherent structures, but there are other ways to get his point across.

Slowly, he reels Peter in, meeting no resistance. When they’re millimeters away, nose to nose, eye to eye, he feels his mouth twist upward in a crooked grin, mirrored back to him in the other man’s face. Then they’re kissing, Peter’s lips warm and enthusiastic under his own, still tilted up in a smile.

It’s one of those kisses that feels all-consuming and endless – a liminal space. When they finally pull apart for breath, it takes him a minute to feel like he has his feet underneath him. He stretches his toes through the soft shag of the living room rug. Ah, yes. There they are.

“You realize I’ve been desperately in love with you for forever, right?” Tony says.

He’s slow to open his eyes, still nervous about Peter’s reaction. When he does, he finds a goofy smile on the other man’s face.

“Forever?” he says, raising an eyebrow.

“For longer than it’s been appropriate,” Tony says. “I’m kind of pathetic about you, actually.”

He pulls back, releasing his white-knuckled grip on Peter’s shirt, but he’s immediately tugged back, Peter’s arms coming up to wrap around his neck.

“I like that idea,” he breaths along Tony’s cheek, stubble scraping pleasantly against his skin. “Say it again.”

“I love you,” Tony says, turning his head for another kiss. He can’t help it. It’s like magnetism or something. Probably a scientifically definable force.

“Good,” Peter says. “Same.”

Tony’s heartbeat hitches dangerously. When Peter kisses him again, he lets himself fall into it, licking into the heat of his mouth and scratching lightly down the tensed muscles in his back. When he guides them in the direction of the hallway, Peter goes without complaint, stretching so they can keep kissing while they move.

He takes a bite of Peter’s plump lower lip, and he lets out such an intoxicating groan Tony can’t resist pressing him against the wall to plunder his mouth thoroughly. Peter twines his fingers into his hair and pulls first one leg and then the other up to wrap around Tony’s waist.

It gives him a perfect opportunity to grab two generous handfuls of the younger man’s ass. It’s the stuff that Tony’s dirtiest dreams are made of. He lays a series of hot, sucking kisses down Peter’s long throat and feels the hard line of Peter’s cock pressing insistently against his stomach.

“God,” he groans, smearing his lips lower to Peter’s collarbone. “Bed. We need a bed.”

“Don’t have to tell me,” Peter says, letting his head fall back against the wall with a thud. “You’re the one driving this operation.”

He digs his heels into the small of Tony’s back and pulls his fingers off of Tony’s neck one by one. It takes a while to unstick them, and they leave a tickling sensation behind as he removes them.

“Shit,” Peter slurs. “I haven’t lost control of my powers like that in years.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Tony hums into the hollow of his throat. “I always forget about the sticky fingers.”

“Hmm,” Peter says. “I’m bendy too.”

“Oh, kid, we are going to have such fun.”

Their progress to the bedroom, after that, goes faster. Tony lets out a crow of triumph when he tosses Peter into the middle of the mattress and crawls up after him, coving Peter’s body with his own.

He swallows Peter’s laughter in a kiss, then gets to work shimmying him out of shirt and pants, remembering too late to be cautious about his injury. He catches the wince in the other man’s face, and pauses.

“Sorry,” he says. “Shit. Sorry.”

“Good,” Peter insists. “I’m good. It’s just a muscle bruise now. Don’t stop.”

He tugs Tony down by the tie that’s miraculously still around his neck, and urges him onward with his lips. Tony finds himself persuadable.

It should maybe feel strange or unsettling at first, this switch in their relationship, but it doesn’t feel different at all. It feels right. Like maybe they’ve been skirting around this moment for a lot longer than either of them realized.

He opens Peter up slowly on his fingers, mouth wrapped around his simply perfect cock, and almost can’t believe how well Peter takes to him. When he feels like he’s ready, Tony pulls himself up Peter’s body and makes the mistake of looking him in the eye. His pupils are huge with lust and abandon, and he’s just so beautiful that Tony can’t take it.

“I don’t deserve you at all,” he rasps out, feeling the breath sucked from his body.

Peter blinks up at him, quizzical then slowly coming back to himself, just a little, from that lust-addled brink.

“Is that what you think?” he whispers.

Then his arms are twining around Tony’s neck and he’s positioned so that they’re nose to nose again, close enough that Tony can spot the stubborn freckle under Peter’s left eye, even in the dark.

“You deserve what I choose to give you,” Peter says, with a shrug that Tony feels rather than sees. “And that’s everything. So.”

“But I— “

“Tony,” Peter interrupts him. “You aren’t seriously going to make me wait _longer_ for this, are you?”

Well, how can he respond to that but to end the waiting? Tony urges Peter onto his hands and knees and then blankets his back, one arm supporting them and the other plastered against his chest, right above his heart.

When he thrusts forward, Peter’s fingers come up to tangle with his. Tony feels like a man coming in from the cold after a long, long time. He mouths unvoiced vows against the back of Peter’s neck and licks at the sweat droplets that break out on those impressive shoulders when he finds the perfect angle. It feels warm and right, and when Peter shakes apart in his arms, Tony follows soon after and feels it sink into his bones.

It’s somehow unsurprising that Peter falls asleep not long after, muttering what Tony thinks is his first proper “Love you” into the tender skin above the arc reactor as he drifts off. He snorts and settles back into the pillows, allowing Peter to drape his entire body over top of his like a very rumbly comforter. Kid’s had a long day. Needs his rest.

Tony can’t sleep, of course. Sleep has always been elusive for him. Under normal circumstances, and with any other partner, he would untangle himself and sneak off down to the lab for a few hours. That option doesn’t seem tempting, just now. Instead, he focuses on the gentle rhythm of Peter’s snores, pulling the blankets tighter around them and running fingers through his hair to the rhythm of their shared breaths.

He looks out the window to the blinking, blaring city lit for holiday celebrations, and they strike him different now. Not so distant. Not so cold. Not curled up in bed with Peter, bodies tangled and a wayward elbow poking him in the ribs. Now he can see it, glimmering at the edges. The defiance of the dark, the hope of a brighter morning. Yeah. There might just be something to that.


End file.
